Poem #81

Is there a crueller sport

Than skimming stones?

I implore you to opine otherwise.

Just look:

A child of nine,

Face screwed in earnest,

Scouring stones, weighting stones,

Appraising stones like a student

Before the avocado basket.

Not flat enough here,

Not round enough there,

Disfigured, unshapely, aeronautically impaired.

But then:

A truffle in the rough!

A wonderstone! Smoothed and plumped

By God’s own hands.

Yet the child admires no more than a moment,

Encircles twixt thumb and index

The stone,

And adds imperfect technique to a perfect tool.

Six skims? Seven? “I counted eight!” they cry,

Having jettisoned perfection to prop up the lie.